


June 2015 prompt fills

by linguamortua



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Angst, Belts, Brock Rumlow Is Really Nasty, Child Death, Clint and Natasha are Besties, Creeper Brock Rumlow, Creepy, Crossdressing, Deaf Clint Barton, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Face-Fucking, First Kiss, Fluff, Humiliation, In Public, Infidelity, Insults, Jack Rollins is a Power Top, M/M, Phone Sex, Pining, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:05:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4222785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of 1000-ish word prompt fills that were first posted <a href="http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/tagged/june-prompts">on Tumblr using this tag</a>. The title of each chapter is the prompt given. If you like them, consider dropping a comment here or reblogging them on Tumblr!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'Oh my God. You're in love with him!'

Steve’s back is sweating through his shirt where he’s pressed against the wall. It’s warm in the locker room, full of shower steam and male bodies. They’re in the bowels of the Triskelion where the air conditioning never seems to work quite hard enough. Besides, Rumlow’s crowding into him, forcing him back into the corner and leaning in with an elbow on the wall as if they’re having a private conversation. It  _is_ a private conversation and this location, Steve is agonisingly aware, is very public. He feels exposed; bare-footed, his royal blue uniform pants not yet zipped and just a thin white tank top covering his chest. Somehow being half-dressed is worse than being naked when Rumlow gets like this, his state of déshabillé implying an erotic liaison rather than mission preparation.

Around them, three separate STRIKE teams, plus an extra complement of agents, are preparing for a four-day haul to somewhere in South America. The casual nudity in the locker room usually fades into the background for Steve. After all, this isn’t his first experience of working with soldiers. Still, with Rumlow breathing hot in his ear and winding him up, taunting him, all Steve can see out the edges of his vision is a sea of muscular legs, tight asses, abs and biceps and male laughter and cocks. Just off to his right, almost at the edge of his gaze, the burly demolition expert Jack Rollins is taking off his street clothes, folding them methodically just like he does everything. His heavy shoulders are flexing as he lines up his shirtsleeves with a snap.

‘Eyes on me, Cap,’ Rumlow says with a fierce flash of his very white canines. Steve turns his head a little to look at Rumlow’s face, all high cheekbones and hawkish gaze and stubble greying around his hard mouth. ‘Eyes on me or I’ll pull that little crop top right off you, right here in front of everyone.’ Steve’s dick twitches in his uniform pants.

‘Is this really the—‘

‘Shut up,’ laughs Rumlow, his eyes flashing with mirth and sadism. ‘’Course it’s the time for this. Your pants are hanging off you, you’re a fucking mess.’ He weasels his right hand down to Steve’s side, where their bodies hide it, and pinches him on the soft skin inside of his hip.

‘Stop—’ begins Steve, but Rumlow’s talking again.

‘Only thing comes close to watching you strip out of those pants is seeing you wiggle around in ‘em,’ he says, ‘all tits and ass, you are, Cap. All tits and ass, shaking it on active duty like a strippergram.’ Steve feels his face heat up. There’s a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye and he glances over, trying to buy time to compose himself. Its Rollins shaking his wide leather belt into place and strapping a holster to each thigh. He carries a pair of oversized Derringers, Steve knows, a good, solid choice for a man who’s always where the firing’s hottest.

‘Eyes on  _me_ ,’ Rumlow tells him again, emphasising the point by shoving his thigh into Steve’s crotch. ‘Listen, listen, you think everybody doesn’t see how tight you do up that uniform? You think everyone isn’t thinking about spanking your ass with those little leather straps?’ He drops his voice low and shifts his weight, effectively barricading Steve into the corner even though he’s half a head shorter and forty pounds lighter. ‘Laugh, so they think we’re just joking around.’ He jerks his head towards the rest of the locker room. Steve gives an unconvincing chuckle. Nobody pays them any attention, in between dressing and moving across to the long, low armoury window in the south wall to collect their sidearms and ammo and sign with the quartermaster. Rollins is stamping his feet down into his boots and meticulously doing them up, thick fingers making delicate loops with the laces.

Rumlow licks his lips with an audible, wet noise that makes Steve shiver and think of cocksucking. His eyes track to one side and back, like he’s scanning for prey, for his next victim.

‘When this is over,’ he promises Steve in a low, filthy voice, ‘I’m gonna facefuck you until you cry. Remember Oahu? Remember that bathroom? Gonna find one just like it, do it all over again. Maybe you can lick my boots off while you’re down there, yeah? Make some use of that tongue?’ There’s a heavy desperation in Rumlow’s voice now that rarely creeps in unless he’s about to lose control. That’s rare. Steve thinks that if he looks down now he’d see the bulge of Rumlow’s cock hard in his black pants. Rumlow snaps his combat harness hard against his own chest with one thumb. ‘You want to lick my leather clean, Cap? Answer me.’ He jabs Steve’s ribs with two bony fingers, but his heart’s not in it, somehow, his attention’s wandering.  

Steve follows his sightline like he would in the field, mapping out bodies on his mental map. Rumlow’s staring down the room under his dark lashes, shuttering his gaze like a shy girl. The locker room’s been steadily clearing out, but Rollins is standing at the armoury window, hip cocked against the wall and talking shop with the quartermaster. The guy loves his gun talk; right now he’s deftly stripping down one of his twin Derringers to show off a modification. Steve casts an eye over Rumlow’s face and sees the intensity, the dilated pupils, the harsh, bitter twist of his lips. In a flash of pique and daring, Steve lets himself push forward off the wall until he’s looking down on Rumlow. Rumlow reacts by puffing out his chest, running his hands through his swept-back hair like an angry, territorial bird.

‘I’m not done with you, buddy,’ he says, squaring off. ‘Just you wait until we’re alone in here, I’ll—‘

‘You two going to gossip all day?’ Rollins asks, coming up beside them unexpectedly. He’s tidy and well-geared; Steve approves of Rollins’ soldierly, professional ways. Rollins reaches out behind Rumlow and tweaks his harness. ‘You’re twisted,’ he observes, raising an eyebrow in his placid face. ‘Get it together, Brock, or do we have to dress you as well as cover your flank, huh?’ He grins, and Rumlow’s smile in response is a little sickly, like he’s been caught stealing and is trying to brazen it out.

‘On our way, Jack,’ Rumlow says, and Rollins nods to both men in turn and heads out, boots squeaking on the floor a little.

‘Oh my God,’ Steve says softly, cutting his eyes across to the sway of Rollins’ retreating back, ‘you’re in love with him.’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Rumlow manages with about ten percent of his usual viciousness. ‘You just—’ He leans his forehead against the wall. Steve stands and observes him for a half a minute more and considers saying something, or touching the slump of Rumlow’s shoulders.

Rumlow stays there a long time. Steve quietly shuts the locker room door behind him on the way out, feeling light, feeling free.


	2. 'The way you flirt is shameful' and 'If you get me his number, I might reconsider'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of 1000-ish word prompt fills that were first posted [on Tumblr using this tag](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/tagged/june-prompts). The title of each chapter is the prompt given. If you like them, consider dropping a comment here or reblogging them on Tumblr!

‘Do you think Fury has it?’ Clint asked Natasha, who rolled her eyes and made a ‘help me God’ gesture with her hands.

‘I think Fury has it, yes,’ she replied. ‘He must do.’

‘Fury would never talk,’ Clint grumped. ‘Do you think Cap has it? I  _bet_  Cap has it. Coulson couldn’t say no to him.’ Natasha stirred her coffee delicately and studiously ignored him. ‘Fury and Cap, that’s it, that’s everyone. Oh! And May. Definitely May.’ Clint ripped open another little sugar packet for his coffee and poured it in with a line of concentration between his sandy eyebrows. ‘ _Did you know_  that some of the agents tried to tail him home once, and—’

‘They failed, Clint, I  _know_ ,’ groaned Natasha. ‘If it’s that important, just walk up to him and ask him out.’

‘I can’t do that!’ Clint yelped! ‘I hardly know the guy! On a personal level, I mean. I just want to ease into it. Like, text him first. Be casual. Be cool. But nobody has his phone number, it’s a  _nightmare_.’ He paused to slurp his coffee, which made Natasha purse her lips in distaste. ‘Do you  _think_ —’ he started again, suddenly inspired, and Natasha stood up and left without a word.

Clint sighed. He was going to have to step up his game.

*                                                           

He looked pretty great today, thank  _you_ very much. His good jeans, clean out the laundry, and a purple tank top that showed off his arms. He hardly had any sticking plasters on at all, just the little finger on his right hand still taped up and healing from the nasty fall last week. And a tiny strip under his jaw where he cut himself shaving. His belt matched his shoes. Oh yes, world, Clint Barton is on the prowl. He cornered Coulson by the malfunctioning coffee machine early in the morning, swooped in like some kind of  _hero_ , oh yes, and hit it in exactly the right place to get it pouring coffee again. First try. Okay, second try. It was pretty impressive, though, and Clint was willing to bet that if Coulson had already had his morning coffee, he’d have smiled.

In the briefing room, he made a really smooth excuse to get up and demonstrate something on the projector screen. Clint’s not Captain America or anything, but he works out. He’s got some abs. He stretched in just the right way to show them off, hips front and centre in Coulson’s eye line. He didn’t watch, not obviously, but he was sure that Coulson had taken in the magnitude of raw sex appeal contained in the stripe of belly between his low-slung jeans and his shirt.

‘Oh hey,’ he said later in the hallway, where he just coincidentally happened to bump into Coulson. ‘Can you do me a favour?’ Coulson gave him that enigmatic little smile.

‘Depends on the favour.’

‘I had a little, uh, malfunction,’ he said, pointing to his right hearing aid where it nestled behind his ear. ‘I gotta recalibrate this.’

‘What do I need to do?’ Coulson asked, looking implausibly amused by Clint’s extremely plausible story.

‘Just come in real close and talk to me,’ Clint said, looking at Coulson through his eyelashes. Top tactic, always – almost always – worked on the ladies. Coulson took a step closer, leaned towards Clint so his breath ruffled the fine hairs on Clint’s face. He paused, considering, and took in a breath that Clint felt everywhere.

‘I know for a fact you should be working right now,’ he said in a low voice.

 _That’s hot_ , thought Clint, as Coulson ambled away with a file under his arm.  _Not a phone number, though. Could’ve whispered me your phone number, Coulson._

                                                                                                                  *

‘Okay, Barton,’ said Natasha, sounding resigned. ‘You are currently insufferable and I hate to encourage your schoolboy obsession by giving you attention, but I need your help.’

‘The worm turns!’ Clint said with glee. ‘Are you ready to make a deal?’

‘My apartment,’ Natasha told him, fixing him with a gimlet stare, ‘is having some minor problems.’

‘Minor…?’

‘The air conditioning is broken, a pipe burst last night and my landlord is verifiably an idiot. I need to move into your building.’

‘Ooh, sorry,’ Clint said, feeling his grin split his face in two. ‘No can do, friend.’

‘Barton. It is a thousand degrees in this city. The pipe.’

‘Well…’ Clint said, as if musing. ‘There is one thing…’

‘Go ahead.’

‘If you get me Coulson’s private phone number, I  _might_  reconsider.’

‘You want me to pry into Coulson’s life so you can get your leg over? Barton, you have no shame.’

‘I don’t!’ Clint agreed fervently. ‘I really don't!'

            *

As it happened, fate intervened before Natasha could find out exactly how one got fired from SHIELD. He was sitting out on the front step of his building, beer in one hand and Lucky inveigling his scruffy way under the other, when he suddenly became aware of a pair of very shiny shoes in front of him. The shoes were attached to legs in black suit pants, which Clint slowly panned up with a tingling sense of dread in his stomach.

‘Hello,’ he said, when his eyes reached Coulson’s face.

‘Clint Barton,’ Coulson said, with the tiniest quirk of his lips. ‘The way you flirt is shameful.’

‘Probably,’ Clint replied, for want of a better answer. ‘Do you, er, want a beer?’ Coulson hunkered down in front of him, intercepting Lucky’s wet tongue with a hand.

‘I’ll trade you a beer,’ he said, pulling a little white card out his jacket pocket, ‘for my phone number.’ And Clint handed over a beer without hesitating.


	3. 'Does he know about the baby?'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of 1000-ish word prompt fills that were first posted [on Tumblr using this tag](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/tagged/june-prompts). The title of each chapter is the prompt given. If you like them, consider dropping a comment here or reblogging them on Tumblr!

Steve’s enhanced hearing didn’t quite allow him to hear the epic bollocking that was happening in Fury’s office, but he could pick up enough to know that it had to be unpleasant for Rumlow. It would have been unpleasant for him, too, if at the last moment he hadn’t been two miles north dealing with an unexpected incursion of HYDRA stealth operatives. He’d been attached to Rumlow’s unit temporarily; Rumlow’s unit, so Rumlow’s job to take the blame.

The op had gone bad, though, real bad. Steve felt shaken in a way that he hadn’t quite since waking up. It was almost wartime bad. He leaned against the wall in the corridor, waiting to be called in. Rumlow’s second Rollins was waiting with him, grim-faced and quiet in his bloodstained gear. When Fury summoned you, you didn’t shower first. Rollins had his arms crossed across his broad chest, rotating a thick silver ring around his finger with his left thumb and staring into middle distance. He was tense and rigid against the wall.

‘I don’t understand why he collapsed the building,’ Steve muttered under his breath. They’d only been there to retrieve some stored data from a potentially-comprised office behind a bodega. Important enough for a STRIKE team, important enough to let Steve tag along for something to do, but not exactly a full frontal assault. Go in, assess the situation, grab the hard drives, subdue any hostiles and leave. No big mess, no civilian casualties, should have taken minutes. Instead, they’d come up face to face with four HYDRA operatives who managed, against the odds, to radio in the stealth team. If not for Steve’s hunch, they’d have come right up behind STRIKE with no warning. There should never have been a full HYDRA team there.

‘Bad move,’ Rollins agreed, his usual laconic understatement sounding forced. 

‘Rumlow doesn’t  _make_  bad moves,’ said Steve, wincing at a loud crash from inside the office. It sounded very much like a glass paperweight hitting a wall. Next to him, Rollins snorted, but there was no mirth on his scarred face. Rumlow’d made a bad move today, though – ordered his team to blow the bodega wall and bail. Four against four, with Steve taking out the second team, should have been easy.

‘It’s been a long time coming,’ Rollins said cryptically. There was a hint of the familiar bitterness of a soldier with a bad CO in his voice. Steve looked across at Rollins, trying to reconcile the cynicism of a put-upon sergeant with what he had thought was Rollins’ fierce loyalty to his commander.

They’d lost the data, lost the site, destroyed a building and – worst of all – there’d been four civilian casualties.

‘You don’t have to criticise your CO to me, soldier,’ Steve reassured Rollins automatically. He was used to this awkward, prickly distance, used to his ambiguous relationship with real soldiers and how that complicated these little chats. Rollins curled his lip and looked away. Inside the office, it sounded like Fury was finally winding down. ‘Does he know about the baby?’ Steve said suddenly, wanting to know before Rumlow reappeared. The mother had been right by the wall when it collapsed; Steve had dug out her slight form wrapped around the lifeless infant with his bare hands and his shield.

Rollins looked him right in the eye and said with tension in his voice, ‘If he knows, the bastard probably doesn’t care.’ He thumbed at his ring, twisting it as if it was burning his skin.

The office door opened, and Rollins’ poker face slid back into place like the conversation had never happened.


	4. 'Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress.'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of 1000-ish word prompt fills that were first posted [on Tumblr using this tag](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/tagged/june-prompts). The title of each chapter is the prompt given. If you like them, consider dropping a comment here or reblogging them on Tumblr!

In Nick’s defense, it was a gorgeous dress; a soft, ocean blue falling in tiny pleats from a high neckline with a bow. Cuffs with little buttons, and a rounded collar. Rayon, he thought, or maybe polyester. Who knew? He wasn’t a goddamn seamstress. All he knew was that he’d seen it in the window and felt oddly compelled to go into the shop. Unfortunate was the woman whose shoulders would fit that frock, but perhaps that was why it was marked down cheap. He bought it, didn’t question himself too intently. Had it wrapped flat in a grey box. It stayed in the narrow gap under the closet for a few weeks, and then he was called away to Venezuela and he forgot all about it.

He should’ve known better. There were no secrets, living with someone as sharp as Alex.

                                                                        *

‘It’s me,’ came Alex’s voice, slightly staticky down the line.

‘Hello, me,’ Nick answered as always, adjusting the receiver under his chin as he pored over his map. Venezuela was sticky and unpleasant, with no amenities to speak of. A phone call was a welcome break from a tedious operation.

‘Here’s a question,’ said Alex interrogatively.

‘Doesn’t sound like a question to me.’

‘Funny. Who’re you buying dresses for, Nicky?’

‘Not curious about what I’m doing out here?’ Usually Alex cut straight to politics, straight to the cut and thrust of SHIELD operations that he was supposed to have limited knowledge about.

‘Please, I’m hurt,’ Alex said. ‘I know damn well it’s about oil. DC is buzzing with it. You’re wasted over there, though. In the office we’ve got a pool running about how long the embargoes will hold. Rumour has it the Saudis are already making deals under the table.’

‘Nothing gets past you.’

‘Nothing except the mystery of the polyester party frock. Enlighten me. I’m genuinely mystified.’

‘Hey man, you got your bellbottoms, I got my dresses.’

‘I have a great dress sense. Just because I’m on the cutting edge of style—’

‘The orange and brown jumpsuit, man?’

‘I’d argue it was daring, a confident choice with a sort of avant-garde élan.’

‘Okay, brother,’ laughed Nick. ‘Talk to me about DC.’

‘Talk to me about the dress,’ Alex countered.

‘What if it was for you?’ Nick said with a thrill running through him. Alex’s laugh was throaty and knowing.

‘Are you telling me you want me to dress up like a girl?’

‘Not like a girl. Like  _you_.’

‘Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress.’

‘Because I want it.’

There’s a long silence, and through the gentle buzz of static along the line Nick could hear Alex shifting in their worn armchair. It was a secure line, nobody listening in, but Nick felt… daring. Exposed.

‘Are you touching yourself?’ Alex said suddenly, and Nick heard the unmistakable sound of his zipper. The armchair made its tiny, muffled squeak again, and Alex sighed softly down the line.

‘I am now,’ Nick said, fumbling himself out of his pants and fisting his dick in his hand.

‘Should I wear stockings?’ Alex said in a low voice, and Nick groaned at him with a mixture of pleasure at the image and frustration at being so far away.

‘Stockings, panties, high heels, wear the whole goddamn lot,’ he said, furiously jerking himself off. The phone lines weren’t reliable here, and Nick would rather wear the damn dress himself than have the call cut off right now.

‘You’ll bend me over in the kitchen, fuck me like a girl?’ Alex asked him, with laughter and arousal twisting through his clipped, controlled voice. Nick had been away for almost a month. They were both desperate.

‘One hand down your panties, one in your hair.’ There was a long pause, filled only with Alex’s quick, quiet panting into the receiver. Those short, fast breaths always get Nick going, and it doesn’t seem to matter that Alex is miles away, worlds away back in DC.

‘No more talking,’ Alex said, sounding strained and desperate. ‘Just come, Nick, come for me.’ It took Nick another couple of minutes of thrusting up into his fist, but he came with a great rush of breath that turned into a moan at the end, and then it was Alex’s turn, higher pitched and more vocal, cursing quietly to himself like he always did.

Nick smiled to himself, hearing Alex come down slowly, his breathing return to normal. He idly wondered if Alex had taken it out the box. Had tried it on. That was a possibility now, yes, Alex posing in his languid, easy way in the soft blue drape of the dress, its prim little collar and bow framing his square jaw.

‘So you’ll wear the—’

The line cuts out.

                                                                             *

Less than a week later, Nick makes his way to the secure drop site, expecting the usual plain white card with the coded message to stay put, observe and await orders. It’s there, but there’s something else, too: a slim, yellow envelope stamped with a series of black bars that mean it comes from the analytics department. It’s coded top secret, his eyes only. He waits until his safehouse door is secured behind him, and then tears open the end. Out fall half a dozen Polaroids. Alex’s face is tastefully obscured, but Nick knows every inch of him. The long, freckled column of his neck tipped backwards against a pillow. A soft, pale inner thigh draped with blue pleats. The smooth muscles of his biceps under the filmy sleeves; the strong, long-fingered hand twisted up in the pussybow; his cock framed by a halo of strawberry-blond curls and light blue fabric. And on the back of that last one, in Alex’s bold cursive hand, four words.

 _Because you wanted it_.


	5. 'Quick, hide behind the sofa!'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of 1000-ish word prompt fills that were first posted [on Tumblr using this tag](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/tagged/june-prompts). The title of each chapter is the prompt given. If you like them, consider dropping a comment here or reblogging them on Tumblr!

Bagels are great. Bagels smeared thickly with cream cheese and topped with fine slices of ham are even better. Bagels with dill pickles stacked on top, wow, definitely a necessary food. Sesame seeds and pumpkin seeds and jalapeno cheese toppings. Bagels with a lot of honey and peanut butter and washed down with a really strong, full-bodied coffee with milk. God, food nowadays is great. So great. It’s amazing how everything is just ready to eat, quick and hot and fresh and bursting with flavour. The texture of everything is perfect in the future. Future food: Steve loves it. He tells Sam that through a mouthful of bagel.

‘Future food, Sam,’ he says, in raptures. ‘You don’t even know.’

‘I think I can guess,’ laughs Sam in his easy way. Sam’s got an arm hanging over the back of his chair, legs stretched out with ankles crossed. His own breakfast is long since finished. Steve always brings over plenty of food, tells Sam to pick out whatever he wants before the rest of it gets demolished. Sam likes the healthy stuff, the wholegrain bagels and oat muffins, the little round poached eggs like hockey pucks, dried fruit and orange juice and tea. It’s a weekly routine now, where Steve runs across town via a deli and they have breakfast together in Sam’s office with the long, low window open out onto the park behind and the radio playing sports highlights or oldies music. Sam’s friendly banter, his understanding, his big, wide smile – it’s all like a balm for Steve. The only thing Sam wants is his company (and maybe a bagel). Steve’s happy to provide it, happy to try all the foods Sam suggests, listen to his music, borrow books and then natter about it all over Wednesday morning breakfast food.

Steve turns his phone to silent for Wednesday morning breakfast hour. He knows he shouldn’t, but he figures it’s not like he’s hard to find, not like he’s the only Avenger in the country. So he takes the hour. Sam tells him it’s probably okay, reminds him that SHIELD’s most likely wise to everyone he spends time with.  _If they can be creepy, man, you can turn your phone off for an hour_. He compromises and keeps it on silent and doesn’t check— okay, he checks quickly if Sam goes to the bathroom. Steve’s just starting to get that antsy feeling like he should take a quick look, and then Sam’s phone’s ringing with its usual chiming sound.

‘Sam Wilson, VA,’ says Sam and then looks straight at Steve. ‘Nope. No, sir. I will. Yes, I’ll call if I see him.’ He hangs up. ‘That was your office, honey,’ he sing-songs. ‘No, sit down, world’s not imploding in your absence. They just want you back to talk about an insurance thing. A rep needs to talk to you because apparently you’re a special case.’

‘A special case?’ Steve laughs. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘Yeah, you don’t seem all that special to me.’ They grin at each other, and then Sam’s phone goes off again. ‘Sam Wilson, VA. Yeah, someone else just called. No, why would you—well, they’re not surveilling very well. Sure. Okay.’

‘Are you lying for me?’ Steve asks, alarmed, and half-rises from his chair. ‘That sounded important.’

‘Man, they’re worried about their schedule. It’s a government agency, they’re always pissing money away somehow. They can reschedule, give you the morning off.’ Sam gets irritated at how often SHIELD call Steve and send him here, there, everywhere. It’s nice. He’s a protective friend. The doorbell of the centre rings, suddenly, and Sam makes a shooing motion with his hand. ‘Quick, hide behind the sofa!’ Steve stares for a moment, and then finds himself doing it, sliding sideways behind the ugly old thing and lying down.

‘Knock knock!’ Steve recognises the voice; it’s one of the many mid-level SHIELD administrative types who run around after him and herd him to his next meeting. He instantly feels better about his decision to hide behind fusty-smelling office furniture. ‘We’re looking for Rogers.’

‘Yeah, I got the phone calls. I don’t know what to tell you; he isn’t here.’ Sam lies like a champ, calm and confident and really, impressively convincing.

‘Our intelligence suggests he meets you at this time every Wednesday.’

‘Your  _intelligence_ could use some refinement. Sometimes he comes by.’

‘But not today?’

‘You see him here right now, bro?’

‘Point taken. Thank you for your time.’

There’s the sound of cheap leather shoes squeaking their way along the hallway, and then a metallic rustle as Sam closes the blinds. Sam’s cheerful face appears over the back of the sofa.

‘Good work, soldier,’ he says, and Steve chuckles, inhales dust and coughs.

‘You’re out of your mind, Sam,’ Steve says, turning over so he can lie on his back, prop himself on his elbows and gaze up at his friend.

‘You know,’ says Sam, coming around to near Steve’s feet, ‘We’ve got twenty minutes until I gotta start setting up for group.’

‘Right,’ Steve agrees, feeling a bit distracted, like a misbehaving schoolboy.

‘I gotta ask—’ Sam crouches down, puts his hand on Steve’s shin. Calm, confident, gentle.

‘I’m, it’s, uh—’ replies Steve, very coherently. Sam lifts his hand, pats Steve’s leg reassuringly.

‘I mean, while you’re off the radar and conveniently behind the sofa,’ Sam continues, with that little head bob from side to side that means he’s being funny. ‘This’d be a great time for me to kiss you, if you were into that kinda thing.’

‘I could be, I think,’ Steve tells him softly, and it’s all Sam needs because then he’s crawling up Steve’s body, placing his hands and knees carefully. Steve lies all the way down and hovers his hands over Sam’s waist before touching him, cupping his sides through the cool linen of his shirt. Sam comes in slowly, just a tiny brush of his lips first and then a long, soft deep kiss that turns Steve to jelly. Sam’s body is over him, on him, his hands on Steve’s face and it’s a lot to take in but Steve wonders if Wednesday morning breakfast foods could be permanently supplemented with covert Wednesday morning makeouts indefinitely.

‘You taste like coffee,’ Steve murmurs lazily against Sam’s lips. Sam gives a tiny shrug and makes to apologise, but Steve hushes him. ‘I like coffee just fine,’ he says, and it’s an awful line that’s older than he is, but Sam smiles wide and kisses him again.


	6. 'Am I supposed to be scared now?'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of 1000-ish word prompt fills that were first posted [on Tumblr using this tag](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/tagged/june-prompts). The title of each chapter is the prompt given. If you like them, consider dropping a comment here or reblogging them on Tumblr!

‘Am I supposed to be scared now?’ The kid spits out a mouthful of blood that rorschachs across the tiled shower room floor. He pulls himself to his feet again, squares off. Jack’s going easy on him, has only thrown half a dozen punches. Nevertheless, he admires the kid’s resilience, the way he just keeps getting back up. The kid runs both his bloodied hands through his swept-back hair. He’s got some dumb fashion haircut with lots of gel in and it’s not holding up to the beating any better than his pretty face. Jack looks down at him, lofty with half a head’s height advantage. He puts a consoling hand on the kid’s shoulder, and then abruptly knees him in the stomach. The kid folds, hits the deck hard knees-first and retches, doubled over and panting.

They always fall for that one.

Jack likes breaking in the new boys. He likes to fight, period – for a while, before Hydra, he used to travel from town to town in his old pick-up truck fighting for cash. Bare-knuckle boxing, cage matches, wrestling; he’d do it all, and usually win. It wasn’t a bad way to make a living in his twenties, but now that he’s pushing forty he appreciates the steady paycheck and the dental insurance. Messing with the new kids keeps him sharp and provides him with the odd new trick to add to his old dog’s repertoire. They need a bit of tempering before they get thrown into missions. Lots of them still need a steady hand on the reins, someone who’ll make them bleed a little, win their respect the hard way. Jack’s got a whole army of acolyte Hydra goons who look to him for guidance and for approval. Some days a man could get sentimental over it.

This kid’s really something, though, really got some good stuff in him. He’s crawling to his feet again, blood running over his lips and dripping onto his shirt.

‘We going again, big guy?’

Ha, this is great. Jack easily deflects a couple of punches, lets the kid tire himself out. He’s still ducking and weaving, still trying to catch Jack off-guard and get some good hits in, even though by now he must know that trying to wear down Jack Rollins is futile. Back in his cage-fighting days, they used to call him Iron Jack. He catches the kid’s fist on the next punch, pulls him in sharply and crushes him to his chest.

‘All right,’ he says. ‘All right, kid, that’s enough.’ Jack feels him sag a little before the kid shoves himself out of the bear hug with an indignant look on his face.

‘What the hell, man? What the hell? I look at you funny or something?’ His legs are shaking with fatigue, shoulders are slumped but he’s still steamed up. It’s great. ‘What kind of shitheel beats up a guy on their fucking team?’

‘You’re not on my team yet,’ Jack says, pulling his battered cigarettes out his back pocket and lighting one. He proffers the pack to the kid with a little hand wave, but gets a sneer in return.

‘That’s  _bad_  for you, bro.’

‘Hasn’t killed me yet.’ Jack sits down on the shower bench and takes a long drag on his smoke. Fuck, that’s good. He stretches and flexes the fingers of each hand in turn, working out the muscles. ‘Look,’ he says, keeping things friendly. ‘You’re not bad, kid.’

‘Brock.’

‘Hmm?’

‘My name’s  _Brock_.’ He’s standing right in the middle of the shower, fists still clenched.

‘Brock, then. You’re not bad. You’ve got some good moves.’

‘So’ve you,’ Brock replies with bad grace. Understandable.

‘I have,’ agrees Jack, ‘and I’ve fifty pounds and a few inches on you, so you did all right for a youngster.’

‘You beat me up in a fucking locker room just to figure that out? What happened to picking on someone your own size?’

‘Now then, kid, don’t whine. Nobody cares about weight classes out in the field.’

‘So this is like, some bullshit sensei test? I’m supposed to learn something?’

‘Learn a lot if you pay attention.’ Jack finishes his cigarette and aims the butt right down the drain. It expires with a sad waft of smoke.

‘Thanks,’ sneers Brock, ‘but I don’t think I need any more training from you,  _dad_.’

Whoops, Jack thinks, should’ve hit him a few more times. Beaten the sass right out of him. He stands up and kicks Brock’s legs out from underneath him. Kid hits the tiles face-first with a yell, and Jack sticks a boot in the middle of his back and grabs his hair, pulling his head back.

‘Two ways this can go now,’ he says conversationally. Who the hell keeps their hair long enough to grab, anyway? ‘Option one, we fight it out some more and you leaving pissing blood and spitting teeth.’

‘Fuck you,’ Brock shouts, squirming and kicking.

‘Option two it is,’ Jack says and flips him over by the hair and with a helping boot to the ribs. He tugs Brock’s head up until he’s sitting with his back to the bench. The kid immediately tips his head back to look up at Jack, resting it on the bench. ‘Good guess,’ Jack tells him. He pins him there with a knee to the chest and his left hand around Brock’s right wrist, drawing the kid’s dominant hand awkwardly across his body. With his right hand, Jack unzips his own pants.

‘What the hell, man?’ Brock shouts for about the sixth time this afternoon. Jack palms at his cock and grins.

‘This is option two.’ He shuffles his boot closer, uses his weight to restrain Brock. ‘I get off, you walk away. Any funny business, I beat the pretty right out of your face.’ He rubs his cock over Brock’s mouth. ‘Get to work, then.’

‘What,’ Brock says, turning his head away, ‘you hear I’m queer and you want to fuck it out of me? Is that what we’re doing?’

‘So you know how to suck a dick?’ Jack asks rhetorically, as if he didn’t have Brock tapped as a cocksucker as soon as he saw him. ‘Get to work.’

This time Brock opens his mouth, sullen and resentful but not stupid enough to want Jack to beat him unconscious. Jack’s dick is as big as the rest of him, so Brock has a hard time getting his mouth around it without the aid of his hands. Still, he’s a resourceful kid and he manages eventually. His mouth is hot and slick with blood and spit and he sucks Jack off steady and rhythmic, like he could do it all day. Jack fastens his right hand into Brock’s hair and uses it to guide him deeper, bit by bit. Brock gags; good. Nothing like the feel of someone choking on your cock. Jack likes that, pushes himself a little deeper so Brock gags again. The kid’s already drooling down his chin, eyes watering, but Jack doesn’t let up. He fucks Brock’s mouth, making him concentrate, not wanting him to check out.

‘Come on, kid,’ he encourages. ‘Use your tongue.’ Brock tries to, rolls it up against the underside of Jack’s cock, but the motion chokes him again and Jack grins. He pushes in deep now, holds Brock’s head down against his writhing, holds him and makes him stay there until he lets out a little whimper and shuts his eyes.

Yeah, that’s the moment. He gets it now. No need to be a hardass about it, Jack tells himself, and he thrusts in half a dozen times until he’s coming in long spurts into the back of the kid’s mouth. He allows himself a moment to close his eyes, relish it. Brock’s wriggling again, trying to get free, and so Jack takes pity and lets him up. He watches with amusement while Brock decides whether spitting out Jack’s load will get him another beating and begrudgingly swallows. His face is wet with involuntary tears and spit, bloodstained and swelling already. Jack crouches down for a moment and pats Brock’s arm. The youngsters always need some praise. A little honey to improve the taste of the stick.

‘You did good, kid,’ he says generously, ‘you did real good.’


	7. 'What's in the bag and why are you hiding it here?' and 'You embarrassed me tonight'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of 1000-ish word prompt fills that were first posted [on Tumblr using this tag](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/tagged/june-prompts). The title of each chapter is the prompt given. If you like them, consider dropping a comment here or reblogging them on Tumblr!

‘Wait up, Cap!’ Brock hop-skips across the sidewalk with a small, brown, canvas backpack slung over one shoulder. He pops open one of Steve’s panniers unasked and folds the bag into it, tucking the straps in carefully. Steve watches him owlishly, straddling his bike with key hovering over the ignition. Brock’s just got the pannier closed again when Rollins and the others leave the building, Jack bouncing his car keys in his palm. Brock casts an eye sideways and saunters further up the bike like he’s here for an innocent chat.

‘What’s in the bag and why are you hiding it here?’ Steve says seriously, not trusting Brock’s body language or his furtive grin. Wisely, probably, Brock reckons.

‘You’ll find out later,’ Brock says, ‘if you’re lucky.’ He peels off, heads over to Rollins’ car. They live together, ride to work together. Jack drives. STRIKE move out in practised convoy, three cars, a bike; some habits don’t stop at the end of the workday.

The Friday night bar trip is a cornerstone of STRIKE team bonding, and they’ve rolled Steve in with them too. He mostly shows up, drinks moderately, laughs politely and leaves at a reasonable hour. Brock’s been trying to corrupt him for the  _longest_ time, or so it seems; he’s not used to having men turn him down or put him off. Tonight, Brock squeezes in next to him and slides over a beer, leans in when Steve says something. The guy’s lonely. Brock can tell sometimes, by the way he tilts towards a touch or orients himself towards whoever’s talking like he’s trying to suck up warmth from their presence. Otherwise, Steve’s body language is pretty obscure. Brock doesn’t get much to go on, but the loneliness – that, he can work with.

Brock pushes hard tonight, feels like it might be the evening that Steve finally cracks. In fact, he’s banking on it – his overnight bag in Steve’s panniers, his cellphone on silent to avoid distractions. He rests a hand on Steve’s thigh and squeezes. Steve flinches a little, unsure, but then stills under Brock’s light touch. Morris cracks a joke and everyone laughs, Steve’s laugh sounding too bright, too brittle. Brock leans in close to Steve’s ear, staunchly avoiding Jack’s dark glance across.

‘You want to get out of here?’

‘I might—’ Steve flushes lightly over his neck and cheeks, sits very straight and rubs his thumb over the condensation on his beer glass. ‘I might leave soon.’ He looks down, like he’s being a disappointment. Which he is, Brock thinks, he is. This guy would be a lot happier if he got well-fucked once in a while. Brock would be a lot happier if he got to fuck someone once in a while. Preferably someone who didn’t make him beg for it, didn’t punish him for every little wrongdoing by withholding sex.  _Yeah you, asshole_ , Brock thinks spitefully as he catches Jack glaring at him,  _I’m talking about you and your fucking whiny pussy attitude_.

Jack’s bullshit continues throughout the evening. He ignores Brock entirely. Steve leaves at eleven, taking his glasses back to the bar and waving everyone goodbye. He pauses at the door to give Brock a brief, guilty look. Jack intercepts it and that mulish set to his jaw creeps in. Before midnight arrives, Jack’s getting up too.

‘I’m out,’ he says to the table at large. He gestures at his head. ‘Headache coming on.’ Brock schools his face into careful neutrality. ‘Get a lift home,’ Jack tells Brock.  _Fuck you_ , Brock thinks, smiling up at Jack’s grim face, and sets himself to the business of drinking himself stupid. Laurier pours him into his battered truck at the end of the night and Brock puts his feet up on the dash and drifts in his private haze of beer and gin. He manages not to puke in the truck, but as Laurier drives off he sticks two fingers down his throat to get it over with and throws up in the front yard. What fucking ever, saves him waking up at five in the morning to do it, right?

He drinks a glass of water in the kitchen and snatches a couple of mint leaves of one of Jack’s plants to chew, before he tackles the stairs and the weight of Jack’s disapproval. Jack’s still awake, sitting up in bed with one of his weird history books.

‘Hi honey,’ Brock slurs, leaning on the doorframe.

‘You embarrassed me this evening,’ Jack says without preamble, folding his arms across his chest. ‘You’re not even subtle.’

‘Aw, Jackie,’ says Brock, with his most winning grin. ‘You know I always come back to you.’ He crosses the floor to the bed, letting himself fall into a prowl. Jack likes that in him usually, but tonight he reaches out a long arm from the bed and stops Brock with a hand to the chest before he can inveigle his way into bed.

‘No,’ says Jack, stubborn face firmly on. ‘You can sleep on the goddamn couch.’ Brock tries to keep his smile from turning to a sneer; knows he’s failed by the way Jack’s expression shuts down. Jack flicks off the light and rolls himself in the blankets, ending their conversation. That’s it. When Jack’s done, you just have to wait out his bad mood. Brock removes himself downstairs to the couch and lies there for a while, gazing drunkenly up at the ceiling in the wash of orange light from the streetlights outside. Then he fumbles in his pocket, pulls out his phone and scrolls his thumb down to Rogers. The phone rings three times and then Steve picks up.

‘Hey,’ Brock says, making his voice very quiet and low. ‘It’s me. So… are you in bed right now? You are? Okay… what are you wearing?’

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Intimate Apparel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4327641) by [Lauralot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot)




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